Part 18 (2/2)
”Why don't I take my car?” I suggested. ”In case we have to split up.”
”No worry,” he said, opening the door for me. ”I'm your tour guide for the day. It was a raffle. I lost.”
”Keep it under ninety, will you?” I asked as I got in.
”It stutters under ninety,” he answered.
”Fine, let's listen to it stutter for a while.”
He took me to a bright, airy place in a row house overlooking the river. It didn't look like a restaurant; it was more like having coffee in someone's living room. The place was about five minutes away, hardly time for the Maria to get up to speed, for which I was momentarily thankful. I was sure I wouldn't be that lucky for the entire day. Zapata, Salvatore, and Flowers were seated at a table in the back.
”Hey, Mildred,” Salvatore yelled across the room as we entered, ”two more javas.”
They all stared at me as I approached their table.
”What's the matter, is my fly open?” I asked as I sat down.
”Sorry,” Charlie One Ear said. ”We haven't seen you in the daytime.”
”What you see, gentlemen, is a ruin,” I said. ”Give me a couple of days to get some sun. I look much better with a decent night's sleep and a little color.”
”It's the fluorescent lights in the Warehouse,” Charlie One Ear joked. ”They give everyone a ghastly pallor.”
”Well,” I said, smiling at everybody, ”thanks for not judging me on first appearances.”
”Yeah, you're welcome,” said Salvatore.
”Y'see what it is, Kilmer, we decided to throw in with you,” Zapata said. ”On a temporary basis, see what happens.”
”Gee whiz, I don't know what to say,” I replied sarcastically.
”'Thank you' will be fine,” said Charlie One Ear.
”Thanks again.”
”Our pleasure,” Charlie One Ear replied. ”Now, just what specifically is it we're looking for?”
”What I need,” I said, ”is connections.”
”Like such as?” Chino Zapata asked.
”Like maybe a hooker who's been bending her heels in Louisville, suddenly shows up here. Chances are, she's on the circuit. The mob moves them around like that.”
”How about pimps?” Charlie One Ear queried.
”Sure, the same thing. Maybe I can tie a pimp to some outfit in Cincy or Chicago. Next step is, who's he working for? How did he get here? Pimps don't move from town to town. What I mean is, they don't free-lance. They move when the heat's on. They usually work for the man. He tells them where to go.”
”So what's different about Dunetown?” Salvatore said. ”That's pretty common, isn't it?”
”What's different is that the Tagliani family is here,” Stick threw in.
”Right,” I said. ”If I can make a connection between here and someplace else, that's the start of an interstate case. If I can tie it to Tagliani's mob, that's part two. If I can prove it, then I can take it to the Justice Department. That's three, and then it's their problem. Anything else I lay off on you guys. I'm not here to make collars, okay?”
”All that is by way of telling us you're looking for out-of-town talent, correct?” Charlie One Ear said.
”Right. I'd also like to know the names of companies owned by the Triad. Where they bank. Who they do business with. What kind of straight businesses they're into.”
”That's a little outta our line,” Zapata said.
”The key man is the accountant, Cohen,” I said. ”He's the bagman. Unless he's changed his MO, he makes three or four pickups a day, never at the same spots. He carries a little black satchel, like one of those old-fas.h.i.+oned doctor's bags, and it's probably full of cash. That's the skim, the money they need to wash.”
”The IGG,” offered Charlie One Ear.
”Correct.”
”This is street money, right?” Stick said, playing along with me. ”Gambling, prost.i.tution, dope, that kind of thing.”
I nodded.
”So why don't we just grab the bag away from the little s.h.i.+t and take a look?” Zapata suggested.
”For one thing, he's probably got four or five cannons escorting him,” I said.
”Yes,” Charlie One Ear said snidely. ”It's also against the law. It's called robbery. One to five for first offense, which might not be applicable in your case.”
Zapata looked at him and laughed.
”They don't usually put their swag in the bank,” Salvatore offered.
”I agree,” I said. ”But Cohen's a crafty son of a b.i.t.c.h. He may have something worked out at the bank.”
”They're in cahoots?” Zapata asked.
”Not necessarily,” I said. ”He may be depositing in several different accounts or putting it in a safe deposit box. The bank doesn't have to be involved.”
I was trying to be honest about it, but I couldn't help wondering whether Charles Seaborn, president of the bank, and a member of the Committee, knew Cohen personally. And if so, whether Sam Donleavy knew that Seaborn knew Cohen. And whether Raines knew that Donleavy knew that Seaborn knew Cohen. It was time I faced up to the facts. I wanted Raines and Donleavy to be up to their necks in it, because if things had gone differently and Teddy were still alive, I would have been in Donleavy's boots. I didn't want to feel that way, but coming back to Dunetown had stirred old emotions that I thought were long dead, and the lies, the hurt, the resentments, were as visceral as fresh wounds. I could taste the blood. So there it was. What can a man do?
”We should maybe talk to Cowboy,” said Salvatore, breaking up my train of thought. ”He s.h.a.gged the little weed for a couple days. ”
”Good,” I said. ”If we can put together enough evidence to show cause, we might find a judge who'll let us look into their bank accounts or let us have some wiretaps.”
”Kite Lange can handle that,” said Zapata.
”He means legal wiretaps, el r.e.t.a.r.do,” said Salvatore.
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